


The subtle art of floriography

by Fox_In_A_Box



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Terrible People in Love, the bois are fine don't worry, unconventional flirting techniques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-04-07 07:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19080343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_In_A_Box/pseuds/Fox_In_A_Box
Summary: As of late, Oswald's life as king of the underworld has been getting repetitive. It all changes drastically when, in the span of a few days, three different hitmen make an attempt on his life. Who hired them? And, most important of all, why is he having so much fun taking them out?





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no idea where this would be set. Could it be a canon-divergence where Oswald and Ed got together early and have been together ever since by the time the events of season 4 roll around? Definitely. Could it be an alternate universe where they didn't get arrested at the end of No Man's Land and went on to re-build Oswald's criminal empire together? Yes. Could it be a future fic set after the finale? Also yes. Choice is entirely yours.

Oswald eyed the new server from the other side of the room. He he subconsciously drummed his fingers on the wooden surface of the table, unable to hide his annoyance. He wasn't a perfectionist by any means (if someone was deserving of that title, that would be his dear Edward), nor was he afraid of getting his hands dirty from time to time, but when it came to the Iceberg Lounge he aimed for perfection. From the service, to the atmosphere, to the musicians and artists performing on stage, everything had to be flawless. And, to put it simply, the new guy wasn't.

At first, Oswald had been impressed by how well-suited the young man was for the job. He seemed to know exactly what to say, how much deference to put in the tone of his voice when he talked to him and, even if he lacked experience in the field, he quickly proved to be a very fast learner. Respect and good will were hard to find in a city like Gotham, where everyone was ready to jump at your throat as soon as you gave the smallest sign of weakness. So he had hired the guy, of course, and never had a reason to regret his decision. Until now.

That night, for some unknown reason, he seemed to have transformed into a different person altogether. He kept stumbling on his own feet, dropping whatever he was holding, all traces of his previously confident demeanour erased and replaced by a nervous, insecure attitude that was at odds with the sophisticated atmosphere of the Lounge. Oswald flinched when he saw him nearly spill a tray full of champagne glasses over a patron and her friends. Unfortunately, the politeness of his manners when he apologized wasn't enough to make up for his disastrous lack of coordination. He would need to exchange a few words with him, after closing time.

Contrary to what most of his detractors claimed, Oswald wasn't an unkind man. He was willing to give most of his employees a second chance, provided they made formal amends for their mistakes and demonstrated to be eager to improve. He wasn't going to fire a waiter for one single night, especially not so early after he got the job. God knew how many stupid mistakes he himself had made in the early days of working as an umbrella boy for Fish Mooney. Still, there was no harm in gently reminding him that the Penguin had his standards and had no use of people who couldn't be bothered to meet them. What would his patrons think of him, then? The fearsome king of the underworld, not even able to train his employees? No, that wouldn't do. 

In the end, the chance to speak with him presented itself earlier than he had expected. Probably aware of the silent glares he had been receiving all evening, the new guy took it upon himself to try and appease his employer's nerves by serving him the dessert. Oswald was disappointed to notice that his odd behaviour didn't change, as he approached him. If anything, he looked even more jittery with each step he took in the direction of his private booth. Even the smile that he offered him seemed...well, off.

"Here's your dessert, sir," he said, setting the plate down in front of him. "Strawberry cheesecake, as you asked."

Oswald's mouth all but watered at the sight. Such a pity he should postpone the delight of tasting it in favour of scolding one of his employees. Ah, the things we do for the sake of our reputation!

"Thank you, Mr..."

"Camellia, sir. Dave Camellia."

Oswald nodded. An odd fellow with an unconventional name. Then again, with one Edward Nygma as his closest associate, he was hardly in the position to judge.

Taking his silence as his cue to leave, the young server moved a step back. Before he had the chance to get too far, however, Oswald spoke up again, forcing him to remain still right where he was. "I actually wanted to exchange a few words with you, if you don't mind."

"I don't, sir," he hastily assured him. "What's it about?"

"Nothing important, just...I couldn't help but notice you're not quite yourself, tonight."

"I'm just tired, sir. Haven't had much sleep last night. Barely even ate. I have two little sisters waiting for me at home, you see, some days I hardly have time to take care of myself."

Oswald hummed in acknowledgement. He allowed himself a short pause, just long enough to grab the fork and use it to cut himself a small piece of cake. When his blue eyes darted up again, he found his employee staring back at him. He had experience of people avoiding eye contact when addressing a superior, sometimes as a show of respect but mostly in an attempt at concealing their discomfort, but he had never met someone who did the exact opposite. It would have been a lie to say that he didn't feel in the least unnerved by it.

"Dear me, where are my manners?" He said, gesturing for him to sit down at the table. "Please, take a seat. You must be exhausted."

"Sir, I don't think I--" the man began, but was cut off by Oswald again before he could finish the sentence.

"Sit," Oswald insisted, allowing his voice to take up a stern tone.

To that, the waiter didn't dare to reply. He complied, dropping down on the empty seat. Oswald didn't miss how his hands started to fold into one another, yet another sign of ill-concealed nervousness.

"You were telling me you're taking care of your family, right?" Oswald went on, poking the piece of cake with his fork but not taking a bite just yet.

"Yessir."

"I assume your parents aren't around anymore."

The hesitation that followed lasted too long to even be mistaken for reticence caused by unpleasant memories. Oswald could almost see all the little cogs and gears in the poor guy's head frantically turning to come up with a plausible backstory.  "They both died three years ago, sir. A terrible car accident."

"Really?" Oswald raised one eyebrow. "I'm very sorry to hear that. My condolences."

"Thank you, Mr. Penguin."

All throughout their brief conversation, the other man's eyes remained fixed on him. No - not on him. His gaze lingered somewhere to his right, in the direction of the piece of cake he had stabbed with his fork and that now was hovering halfway between the plate and his mouth. Suddenly, it all clicked into place. Oswald had to suppress a grin when the sudden and strange change in the man's behaviour started to make a bit more sense, forming a pretty detailed picture in his head. Instead of having a so desired taste of his dessert, he set the fork down on the plate. He then offered the waiter his best imitation of a gentle smile.

"You know what?" He said. "This cake looks delicious. Here, take some."

He pushed the dish towards him. The look on the young man's face was one of pure horror. He must have realised he was going to betray himself, so he hurried to change his expression into something more resembling mild embarrassment. Not fast enough for Oswald not to notice, though.

"This is your dessert, sir," he tried to protest. "I can't."

Oswald let out a small chuckle. "Of course you can! I won't let anyone say that Oswald Cobblepot starves his employees. This is my club, I can always order another one if I feel like it."

Well aware that he had just ran out of options, the waiter reached for the fork with trembling hands. Oswald was sure that, had it not been for the dim lighting of the club, he could have even seen drops of cold sweat run down his forehead. He took the first bite, ever-so-slowly, as if he was sinking his teeth into an explosive instead of on a very nice-looking slice of cheesecake. Then again, if Oswald's intuition had been correct, he had every right to.

It was over in the blink of an eye. One moment the young waiter was swallowing hard around a mouthful of cake, and the other he had slumped out his chair, now limp on the ground with foam dripping from the corner of his mouth. Dead. Oswald's face curled into a grimace of disgust.

At the snap of his fingers, two of his most muscular lackeys hurried to the table. Oswald got up from his chair, nodding towards the dead body lying on the polished floor. "Will you please get rid of him? Thank you."

Without a word, the two hoisted the body up and quickly disappeared behind one of the back doors. Thankfully, the brief ordeal seemed to have gone unnoticed by the other customers, too busy chatting and drinking to pay attention to the unsettling scene unfolding by a secluded booth in the corner of the room.

And so, someone was out for his blood. What an exciting turn of events! The initial disbelief was soon replaced by genuine curiosity. How long had it been since the last time someone had been so bold in their attempts at getting rid of him? Outside of the occasional shootout, of course, but they could hardly be taken into account when Victor Zsasz and his girls were constantly around him to make sure whoever pointed a gun at the Penguin would be rewarded with a taste of their own medicine. Oswald considered those more suicidal bravado than legitimate, well- thought out attempts on his life. Poisoning, on the other hand, was personal. More similar to stabbing, as it required a certain degree of closeness with the target. Not physical closeness, in this case, but the one that came from learning about the victim's habits and personal tastes.

As absurd as it might have sounded, Oswald found it almost flattering. Yes, flattering to know that someone despised him  - or maybe feared him - so much that they had deemed necessary to send a clumsy hitman to try and poison him in his own club.

Oswald smiled at his reflection on an empty wine glass. Whoever the mind behind the failed assassination was, they had some nerve. And would soon learn that the Penguin was quite the difficult bird to kill.

 

 

 

****

 

 

"Hold on," Ed said from the other end of the line. "Are you telling me that someone tried to poison you? At your club?!"

He sounded positively worried. Oswald felt his heart shrink in his chest. In the course of the last few years, they had had the chance to get to know each other better than they ever could, to settle down, slowly work around their blooming feelings for one another other until they had finally found their balance. Yet, Oswald was still caught off guard whenever Ed demonstrated just how much he cared for him. And he hated to see him - or rather, to hear him so upset.

"My very own waiter. He had started working for me only recently, no more than a couple of weeks ago. Someone must have heard I was hiring and took advantage of it to sneak a hitman in my staff."

Ed was silent for a moment. Oswald could hear what sounded like a crowd cheering, with people shouting and talking over each other in the background. He had been somewhat secretive when presenting him his latest project, refusing to share the details in spite of Oswald's insistence. All he knew was that it had something to do with a show he was putting up in the Narrows. Oswald could easily picture him as the charismatic host of a bizarre competition with a cruel twist. It made sense. After all, he knew all too well how much Ed loved the spotlight.

"Are you sure you want to sleep at the mansion, tonight?" He asked then. "If someone's out to get you, it's very likely they'll try again soon. Maybe you should spend a couple of days at the safe house, just in case. Wait until the dust settles."

"I appreciate your concern, Ed," Oswald replied. "But it was just an isolated attempt. A rather clumsy one, might I add. Nothing to worry about. Besides, I have Victor watching my back."

"Then I suppose there is nothing I can do to make you change your mind," Ed sighed, defeated but with an unmistakeable hint of fondness in his voice.

"Always so smart, my dear Edward," Oswald cooed. "By the way, how's that project of yours coming along?"

"The Narrows are difficult to work with, but I knew what I was getting into. All in all, I think everything's coming along quite nicely, if I dare say so myself! The audience will love what I have in store for them! You'll need to drop by and see for yourself, when I have everything settled."

Now _that_ was his Ed. Bubbling with excitement and eager to show him his progress, if only to hear a word of praise from him. "It's a date, then."

"You won't regret it," Ed assured him. Oswald might have been unable to see him, but he swore he could almost hear the grin in the tone of his voice.

For how much he loved to have Ed around, he had never been a fan of his complicated schemes. Oswald had a preference for more straightforward methods when dealing with his enemies, more shock and awe and less extravagant theatrics. It just wasn't his style. But he had no intention of raining on Ed's enthusiasm, refusing to see the end result of the projects he was so invested in. Not when he knew that by indulging him, he would be rewarded with the endearing sight of Ed with his eyes glimmering behind his glasses and that curl in his lips he had grown to love so much.

He stifled a yawn, covering his mouth with the hand that wasn't currently holding the phone near his ear.

"I'd better go to bed, now. Busy day tomorrow."

"Your days are always busy," Ed remarked, but didn't try to dissuade him. "Goodnight, Oswald."

"Goodnight, Ed."

He was about to end the call, when Ed's voice reached him through the phone once again. "Oh, and Oswald?"

"Yes?"

"Stay safe."

After closing the call, Oswald headed to bed. Until he fell asleep, he wasn't able to shake the little smile off of his face.

 


	2. 2.

****

The following day proved to be busy indeed.

The meeting he had scheduled with the representatives of the criminal syndicates currently residing under his authority proved to be more taxing than expected, when the leader of minor gang pulled a gun on Barbara Kean. The ensuing shootout happened to attract the attention of a naive police officer patrolling the block who, instead of turning his head and proceeding on his way as if nothing had happened - like most of his older, wiser colleagues would have done - thought it appropriate to call for backup. Which left Oswald to take care of the situation with the aid of one of his most loyal allies: cold hard cash.

The sight of Barbara's amused grin as she watched him bribe his way out of a police investigation was topped on the annoying scale only by his secretary, who kept following him around  like a lost puppy, blabbering his mouth about negotiations to be concluded and agreements to be signed. The cherry on top of the metaphorical pie of exhaustion was his bad leg that, after having allowed him a few days of respite, had decided to come back with a vengeance. What had started as a subtle ache in the morning soon developed into full-blown throbbing pain by midday.

It was already late in the afternoon when Oswald dragged himself into his office in the back of the Lounge and let himself fall on one of the ornate chairs with a heavy sigh. His eyes fell shut as soon as he was seated. Maybe, he thought, just maybe he could leave his subordinates in charge of the club and retire early for the evening. No sense in over-exerting himself when he had more than enough men to manage his business in his absence.

He was still pondering about the beneficial effects that a nap and a steaming cup of tea could have on his sore leg, when the creaking of the door made his eyes snap open. He jumped up from the chair almost instinctively, biting back a curse when his leg punished the sudden movement with a sharp twinge of pain.

He found himself face to face with a woman roughly his own age, dressed up in a nice grey suit and high heels.

"How did you--"

"Mr Penguin!" She exclaimed. "I'm so honoured to finally meet you!"

"Look, Miss," Oswald began, all his usual politeness forgotten in favour of getting rid of the unwanted attention as soon as possible. "I don't know why they let you in here, but this is my private office. Emphasis on _private_. If you want an interview, you'll need schedule an appointment with my secretary."

"Oh, no no no," she hastened to explain. "There must be a misunderstanding! I'm not a reporter I just-- I...uhm, I wanted to thank you. For everything you've done for this city."

For a single moment, Oswald was at a loss for words. Well, that was a welcome change of pace. After having enemies and reluctant allies alike spit empty threats at him all day, he certainly didn't mind a citizen congratulating with him for his hard work. Moreover, the thought itself amused him. Only in Gotham you could see a young lady thanking one of the city's most notorious criminal minds for keeping the peace, instead of extending her gratitude to the police force. Then again, who was to be taken into account for significant drop in petty crime rates of the last couple of years? _Certainly not Harvey Bullock,_ Oswald thought holding back a chuckle.

"You see, Mr. Penguin, I've lived Gotham my whole life," she went on. "And I've always wanted to move elsewhere to raise my child, if I ever had one. But now, I don't feel like I need to leave anymore. My kids will grow safe and protected in my beloved hometown, and all thanks to men like you!"

Oswald was so pleasantly surprised by such a heartfelt manifestation of gratitude, that he was even willing to ignore the pain in his leg, if it meant listening to a kind woman sing his praises a little longer. Never could be said that he wasn't willing to spend some of his precious time conversing with an enthusiastic fan.

"I do what I can," he said, deflecting the compliment yet at the same time opening up into a big, self-confident smile. "Gotham is my home too. That is why I decided to devote myself to it. When I was mayor I--"

"Speaking of which," the young lady interrupted him. "I still have one of your fliers from way back during your campaign. You'll think I'm silly now, but I ended up holding on to it for sentimental value. I'd love if you just...signed it for me? Please?"

"Of course, that would be my pleasure."

"Great! I should have it here somewhere..." she trailed off, as she started rummaging in her purse.

Oswald took advantage of the short pause to sneak a look at his pocket watch. Seven fifteen. If he managed to sort this out quickly he would maybe even have the chance to drop by at Ed's apartment and spend some time with him, before he headed to the Narrows to work on his project. They had been working on opposite schedules, recently, so every extra minute they could spend in each other's company was more than appreciated. His evening might very well have a pleasant conclusion, after all.

His train of thoughts cut off, quite literally, when he caught the flash of something very sharp at the corner of his eye. Instinct kicked in. He ducked out of the way of what was soon revealed to be the blade of a kitchen knife cutting through the air. He had avoided a slash aimed at his throat by mere inches.

"What--" He stumbled back, cursing through gritted teeth when his bad leg gave out under his weight. His back collided painfully with the linoleum floor.

Before he could get the chance to get back on his feet, he was pushed down again, with more force than he had expected from such a petite woman. She didn't waste any time before straddling him, effectively pinning him on the ground and depriving him of any mean of escaping. Only thing Oswald could do was grab her arm to prevent her from lowering the weapon again, slicing the palm of his own hand in the process. Doing his best to ignore the blood running down his wrist and seeping the cuff of his shirt, Oswald tightened his hold on the woman's forearm.

Her teeth bared into a wild sneer, she broke out in a raspy laugh. "My, my! My client did tell me that by flattering you a bit I'd get you to lower your guard in no time, but he forgot mention how happy you'd look after just a couple of compliments. Desperate for other people's approval, aren't you?"

The ache Oswald felt in response to her words wasn't physical. But by no means any less painful. He was well aware that his pride would be the cause of his downfall, sooner or later, but hearing it spelled out to him like that was just humiliating. He felt his ego as a living presence in his chest, snarling like a wounded animal. Claiming for blood. He forced himself to push all the nice pictures of what he would to do her if he managed to gain the upper hand in the darkest recess of his mind and focus instead on the situation at hand. Which had the potential to be very deadly indeed, considering the blade that glimmered a short distance from his face.

"Your client," Oswald said, trying in vain to control his uneven breathing. "Who is he?"

"I'd be very happy to tell you," the admirer-turned-assassin snickered. "But my job policy is to protect the identity of my customers at any cost. Even sacrificing my own life, if necessary."

"Oh, but you won't die. Not right away, that is. You'll have a long time to reassess your priorities while my men rip the skin off of your bones one little strip at a time," Oswald's voice came out as a high-pitched growl, ripped from his throat with the force of his anger.

If the threats had any effect on her, she didn't show it. The smile didn't falter on her lips, not even for a single moment. "Nice try, little bird. But I think you're forgetting who's holding the sharp end of the stick, here."

Oswald's eyes darted to the door. It was still ajar but, unfortunately, the loud beats of the music coming from the dancefloor would make so that any cry for help would go unheard and _where the hell were his bodyguards, anyway?_

With one more desperate effort, Oswald was able to dodge the second slash, this time aimed at his face. He was tangentially aware of the unpleasant sound of the blade stabbing the wooden floor close to his temple, but he dismissed the information when he saw the weapon skid away, too far for either of them to reach. He grabbed at the collar of the assassin's blouse instead, succeeding in pulling her down with him on the ground. With the other hand, he blindly groped around the drawers of desk until his fingers closed around the handle of a paper knife. He wasted no time before pointing it to the assassin's neck. Hard enough to be a convincing threat, but not enough to deprive her of the ability to speak. He still needed to hear her.

"Last chance," he panted, chest heaving with the effort. "I want a name!"

The woman opened her mouth and...

A loud bang echoed through the walls of the small room. Oswald felt the would-be assassin's body slacken under his hold, then go completely limp. Blood started to pour out from the hole in her temple.

"Phew, that was a close call!" It didn't take long for Oswald to recognise the voice of his saviour. He turned his head to see Victor Zsasz on the doorway, returning his gun in the holster. "A few seconds more and you would have ended up with a knife in your guts, eh boss?"

Oswald's fists clenched at his sides, a meagre attempt at restraining the fury he wanted so bad to unleash on him. No, it wouldn't do to turn his subordinate into a scapegoat after he had just saved his life. He was only doing his job, wasn't he? He only just happened to overlook one simple, yet fundamental detail.

"You're right, Victor," he began, bitter sarcasm dripping from every word. "It was a close call. A few seconds more and I would have persuaded her to tell me the name of her client!"

Silence fell. Victor looked at him, then at the body. Them back at him. Then at the paper cutter he still held in his right, bloodied hand. "Oops. My bad."

Oswald had to take a series of deep breaths not to snap back at him right there and then. Good thing he was so skilled at his job, or else he would have already found a way of getting rid of him for good at the umpteenth misuse of a victim's severed body part.

"We can always bring her to that doctor I know and see if she can find a way to have her talk," Zsasz tried.

Oswald glared at him. "With a hole in her head?"

"Yeah, no, you're right."

"Nevermind, just..." Oswald sighed. Getting up on his still shaking legs took some serious dedication, to the point that he was forced to make a pause before he could complete his sentence. "Just make so that the GCPD doesn't find her. And send someone down here to clean the floor. We'll think about tracking down whoever sent her later."

"Will do, boss."

Zsasz approached him and the body. They both stared down at it for a while, each of them lost in thought. Oswald pondering about the identity of the mysterious man who had dared send not one but _two_ killers after him; Victor probably laying out a mental plan to make all evidence of the failed assassination disappear. Well, that, or thinking about the nearest place where he could get a milkshake after he was done with the job.

Eventually, Oswald turned his back and started making his way out of the room, leaving his subordinate to his task. However, he stopped in his tracks as he heard Victor mutter an offhand comment. "What a pity. She had some potential..."

Oswald cast him a glance over his shoulder. "You knew her?"

Zsasz shrugged. "She applied to join my team a couple of years ago, had a good aim but wasn't as good at following orders. Had to kick her out pretty soon. She went by the name of Daisy, if I'm not mistaken."

"Strange name for a hitman," he said, more to himself than to his subordinate.

"Yeah, that's what I told her. No one's gonna take you seriously if you're named after a flower."

Oswald let Zsasz's voice fade in the background. It was the second failed attempt in two days. He should have been scared, he reasoned. And yet...Escaping death for the second time in less than twenty-four hours seemed to have drained all the weariness from his bones. Only raw adrenaline, flowing freely in his veins, remained.

All of a sudden, Oswald was more than excited to pursue his personal vendetta. Ruling his empire was all well and good, but now he had something to look forward to. The rush he hadn't felt since the days spent planning Theo Galavan's demise came back full-force. Only this time there would be no Jim Gordon rushing things along, deciding for him when it was time to deliver the final blow. No - this time his revenge would be slow and sweet.

 

 

***

 

 

Oswald winced when the antiseptic made contact with his skin, sinking his teeth in his lower lip to prevent himself from hissing. His first reaction was to pull away, but Ed's grip around his wrist was too tight to allow him more than to shift and squirm in his hold.

"I wonder what your subordinates would say if they saw you now," he teased, as he gently dabbed the long cut on Oswald's palm with a cotton pad.

"They should be worried about what _I_ am going to say about them, after they've left me to be almost--" his voice was cut off by another barely concealed groan of pain when Ed pressed a bit harder against the wound. "Stabbed to death in my own office!"

"From what I've heard you put up quite a fight, though," Ed replied, his lips twitching into a half-smile. Even then he didn't look up at him, keeping his head bowed down to better look at his injury as he started to bandage it.

Oswald just huffed at that.

He had been lucky, Ed informed him afterwards. The cut might have looked bad at first glance, but to a closer examination it had turned out to be rather shallow. No need for stitches - much to Oswald's relief. Wrapping it up in bandages and keeping it clean to avoid the risk of infection would be enough to speed up the healing process.

As a finishing touch, Ed brought his bandaged hand to his lips and kissed it. Oswald felt a familiar heat raise to his cheeks. He should have never told him that his mother used to do it all the time, when he was little. Even well into his twenties, she would still offer to kiss his bruises better, ignoring her son's embarrassed protests.

Much like Ed ignored his half-hearted complaints and proceeded to wrap his arms around his waist, coaxing him into some sort of hug whilst settling them both more comfortably on the couch. For the first time since he arrived at Ed's apartment, tired and bleeding, the tension in Oswald's shoulder started to ease, to the point that he found himself melting in the other man's embrace. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Ed's attentions always worked magic on his nerves.

"Have you found out who ordered the hit, yet?"

"Not yet," Oswald sighed. "My men are on it. But don't worry, whoever he is I'll make sure he regrets it. Hiring a hitman was bold, but two - two is just preposterous."

"So you think the two attempts might be connected?"

"Of course they are!"

"Mmh," Ed hummed, resting his chin on Oswald's shoulder. "And how are you planning to do that? Making him regret his pitiful attempts on your life, I mean."

The words were uttered directly into his ear, and he couldn't help but shiver at the pleasant feeling of Ed's warm breath on his skin.

"You _do_ have a taste for the morbid," he chuckled. A subtle tease, to which Ed responded by pressing his lips against his cheek.

"I merely enjoy watching you work."

It wasn't a lie. Maybe just a bit of an understatement. Oswald would never forget the look on his face when they had drawn the first cuts on the flesh of poor Mr. Leonard, blindfolded and wrapped up like some sort of gift. A gift not just for him, but for the both of them. Oswald had realised as much after noticing the sparkle in Ed's dark eyes when talked about murder and torture, and all kinds of heinous acts that would have made any honest, law-abiding citizen of Gotham cringe in disgust.

Many things had changed since that fateful night. Many more hadn't. For one, Ed hadn't lost his interest in the gruesome and the macabre, especially if it was Oswald who provided this specific form of entertainment. He suspected that Ed's childlike excitement didn't came solely from the thrill of the kill, but also from the knowledge that Oswald wouldn't judge him for his unusual interests. More than that, that Oswald understood where he was coming from and what it felt like to hold the life of another human being in his hands.

"First of all," Oswald said, his voice lowering to a whisper. "I might need you to to help me with the restraints. I don't want him shaking too much when I start cutting out his eyelids."

Pressed against him, Ed took in a sharp breath. Oswald took it as an incentive to delve into more and more gruesome details as his narration progressed. If he wanted to know in vivid detail all the little, excruciating punishments he was going to inflict on the foolish man who had dared cross him, who was he to refuse?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it even a fanfic by me if it doesn't acknowledge Ed's morbid fascination with Oswald doing terrible things to people?


	3. 3.

What Oswald loved the most about his relationship with Ed were the simple things. A kiss on the cheek before heading to work, helping the other out with the knot of his tie, huddling together by the fireplace when the nights became colder. The kind of things that warmed his heart - if he still had one.

When he entered the kitchen, he was greeted by the fairly endearing sight of Ed with his hair still ruffled from sleep sitting at the dining table, steaming cup of coffee in one hand and ballpoint pen in the other, utterly busy completing the daily crossword of the Gotham Gazette. As soon as he heard him cross the threshold, his head tilted up and his lips distended into a smile.

"Good morning, oh fearless king of the underworld."

Oswald sat down on the empty chair beside him, giving him a puzzled look. "Fearless?"

"Well," Ed said, putting down both the pen and the mug, so that he could offer Oswald his undivided attention. "You survived two attempts on your life in two days and you're still going to work as if nothing happened. Sounds quite fearless to me."

Oswald opened his mouth to reply, but Ed anticipated him. "Wait, I was almost forgetting! I made you pancakes."

With that, he stood up and walked around the table to reach the kitchen counter. He came back with a plate bearing a small tower of fresh pancakes drenched in chocolate sauce. He beamed at Oswald, visibly proud of his own accomplishment, as he set the plate down in front of him.

Oswald, for his part, faced with the simultaneous attack of Ed's bright smile and the delicious smell coming from the breakfast he had prepared just for him, thought he might die right there and then. It wouldn't have been a terrible way to meet his end, really, in the familiar comfort of his lover's apartment and surrounded by the fragrance of chocolate pancakes. He picked up the fork and took the first bite, savouring the sweet taste.

"Let me guess," Oswald said, mouth still half-full. "What you're going to say next is that there is a fine line between courage and stupidity and that I've probably crossed it, by now."

Ed shook his head with a low chuckle. "I would never dare! You're the smartest man I've ever met, Oswald."

Oswald had to suppress a chuckle of his own at that. "Always the flatterer."

And there it was, the always pleasant warmth coiling in his stomach whenever Ed offered him any kind of compliment. Had it come from anyone else, Oswald would have groaned and chalked it up to yet another attempt at stroking his ego from someone who needed to get on his good side - Ed, however, had had the chance to show him more than once that he, indeed, meant each and every word.

Oswald watched him take another sip from his cup. When he lowered it again, his smile had faded a bit. "But I must admit it worries me...you don't seem preoccupied enough, Oswald. In fact, you look like you're enjoying this."

Ah. So that's what it was all about. It had taken him a while even to admit it to himself, as he tossed and turned in his bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep because of the adrenaline still flowing in his veins after the events of the last couple of days. Ed was right. He _was_ enjoying it. The unique rush that came from knowing that you yet again managed to outsmart your foe. The euphoria of the close call, hearing the knife drop on the ground, the gunshot piercing the air and realising that you made it out unscathed. Oh, he wouldn't go back to the early days of his career, but he had missed the adrenaline from the days he fought tooth and nail every single day to climb the cruel hierarchy of Gotham's criminal underworld.

He realised he had been lost in his own thoughts, staring at an empty point on the surface of the table, only when Ed's voice urged him to come back to himself. "Oswald?"

He blinked, looking up to see the other man looking back at him, a small crease of worry in his forehead. "I'm sorry I was just...thinking."

"Thinking?"

"Yeah. I..." he paused, then, looking for the right words. "I suppose I am. Enjoying this, I mean. It's been a while since I got my hands dirty and I realise now that I had missed it. I know it sounds ridiculous, but...that's what it is."

Much to his relief, he saw Ed nodding slowly as he spoke. "I understand. That's why I'm not telling you to run and hide. I know whoever is behind this has no chance against you, so you might as well enjoy it while it lasts. Just try not to get yourself killed before tonight, okay?"

Tonight? Oh, right. The dinner they had been planning for quite some time, now. Both their lives had gotten so hectic that they had to schedule a night for themselves only to have the precious chance of spending more than a handful of hours together, away from the problems of their everyday job.

"I'll do my best," he assured him.

It seemed to be enough for Ed, who clapped his hands together with a smile. "Wonderful! Now, if you don't mind, there's a couple errands I need to run before dinner, so I'll better dress up and get going. You can stay here as long as you want, just make sure to close the door behind you when you leave."

Before Oswald had any chance to protest, he got up from his chair and leaned in to press a soft kiss on his lips. Oswald had to fight the urge to grab him by the shirt of his pajamas and pull him down for another dozen or so kisses before allowing him to break free. But Ed was a busy man, and so was he. Besides, there would be a lot of time for that, later in the evening.

He had just returned to his breakfast, when he heard Ed call out for him one last time, from the adjacent room. "Oh, and another thing! Could you grab a bottle of wine, when you're done at the club?"

"Consider it done, my dear."

 

 

 

****

 

 

Eight hours, another attempt on his life and a handful of bullets later, Oswald sat in the interrogation room of the GCPD headquarters, in company of none other than Jim Gordon himself.

"So you're confessing the murder of Jacob Heather?" Gordon was saying.

"I think the expression you're looking for is 'self-defence'," Oswald supplied. "He attacked me first."

The detective shot him an unimpressed glance. "And you shot him six times in retaliation."

Oswald, in turn, made a show of shrugging his shoulders. "Spur of the moment. I wasn't exactly in the state of mind to count how many times I pulled the trigger, I'm sure you understand."

There was some truth to his statement. He had just refrained from telling _the whole_ truth. The gruesome display he had made of the assassin who had tried to strangle him with a metal wire as he was selecting a bottle of wine to bring to his dinner date with Ed was only in part the product of self-preservation instinct. The first couple of shots had been fired in the heat of the moment, sure. The remaining four, however, had more to do with an explosion of uncontrolled fury, when he had realised the man was already too weak to speak and wasn't going to provide him with his client's name any time sooner. Last Oswald had seen him, the poor bastard lay in a chaos of broken bottles and spilled wine, with six holes in his chest and stomach.

"I heard this is the third time someone tries to kill you in...what, less than a week?" Jim went on. "You've been lucky."

Oswald didn't like the implication in the detective's tone. There was something in the way he uttered the word 'lucky' that made his mouth twist into a sneer. "You're insinuating that I might have set this up myself, aren't you? And for what purpose, pray tell? A show of strength?"

"I wouldn't put it past you."

The last remark was enough to push Oswald to jump up from his chair, the metal handcuffs joining his wrists together rattling with the movement. He leaned forwards, trying to close the distance between himself and the man sitting at the other side of the table as much the restraints allowed. He looked at Gordon directly in the eyes when he spoke.

"You have no evidence to support your claim. So either you keep me locked in here for forty-eight hours as you scramble to find evidence against me, which will prove to be useless anyway making the both of us lose precious time, or you let me go. Which one will it be, Jim?"

The two men stared at each other. To Oswald's utmost satisfaction, it was Jim who averted his eyes first, after what had felt like an eternity, letting out a defeated sigh. Oswald's sneer, on the other hand, morphed into a victorious smirk.

"Just don't skip town until this...thing, whatever it is, is cleared off."

"As if," Oswald snorted.

This time, the detective didn't answer. He merely produced a pair of small keys from the pocket of his jacket. The click of the handcuffs being unlocked was music to Oswald's ears. 

As soon as he stepped out of the interrogation room, all the officers in the precinct reached for their service weapons. Oswald couldn't suppress an annoyed huff. He was about to tell them off with all the poignant sarcasm he was able to summon after such an eventful day, but Jim Gordon beat him to it.

"Put down your weapons," he barked, albeit with some reluctance in his voice. "He's free to go. For now."

The policemen and women exchanged wary glances, but didn't question the order coming from their superior. One by one, they put away their guns and stepped aside to allow Oswald to limp out of the building - not before a young, nervous officer who didn't even dare look at him in the eyes returned him his possessions. His gun now safely tucked in the inner pocket of his jacket and his trusty cane in hand, he was ready to return home and finally, finally prepare for his dinner.

His driver was waiting for him just outside. At Oswald's gesture, he got back into the car and started the engine. Oswald let himself fall on the leather backseat with a long sigh.

"Shall I take you home, sir?"

"Please."

The ride was quiet. Just what Oswald needed after yet another struggle for his life and the subsequent confrontation with Gordon. He laid back in his seat, eyes half-closed, trying to keep the adrenaline at bay and think rationally about what had happened. Not what had just happened, but what kept happening since that night that waiter tried and miserably failed to poison him at the Lounge. There was no doubt the hitmen had been hired by the same person. For how much he thought about it, he couldn't seem to come up with a face or a name of someone he had recently made an enemy of. A quite persistent enemy, for that matter, considering the lengths he was willing to go just to see the king of Gotham kicked out of his throne.

At some point, he started muttering his thoughts out loud without even realising it. The only other person in the car with him didn't respond to his ramblings, but it didn't matter. He wasn't supposed to, anyway. This was just Oswald trying to put some order in his head. His most loyal employees knew better than interrupting his train of thoughts with unwarranted comments.

"He's smart, I'll give him that," Oswald said, letting his eyes wander outside the dark tinted window. "Sending a hitman undercover in my staff two weeks in advance, poking holes in my security so that another could surprise me in my office. And now a third one, waiting for me at the shop behind behind one of the racks."

He paused, trying to put his ideas in order. The grey buildings of Gotham city passing by under his gaze, while in his mind paraded all the possible candidates.

Barbara Kean? Rather unlikely. The ceasefire agreement they had signed a while back was proving to be very fruitful for the both of them, no reason to turn on him without a proper motive. Besides, she wasn't the kind of person to hire an assassin - if she had wanted him dead she would have taken the matter into her own hands.

The Street Demonz? Their leader had protested rather violently when he had claimed for himself a big chunk of their territory, but Oswald was skeptical about their ability to come up with such a convoluted scheme. Their speciality was weapons, brawn not brains. Which ruled out most of the smaller gangs he was working with, really.

Maybe he had to think bigger. The Falcones? With the old patriarch out of the picture, there wasn't much the family could do to re-claim its hold on the city. Some younger heir he wasn't aware of, coming back to Gotham after years to pick up his father's legacy and dismantle his empire? That was a possibility, even though Oswald would have been hard pressed to tell why the mysterious heir would have jumped right into action without a proper, polite introduction first. Their father had always been a civilized man, after all, it was only sensible to think he would have raised his children in much the same way.

And that wasn't even half of it, of course. Oswald had his fair share of enemies and begrudging allies only waiting to turn on him, most of which he couldn't exclude for sure. Not even the dead ones. Gotham being Gotham, you could never be sure they _stayed_ dead, sometimes not even after shooting them ten or twenty times in the chest.

"The first two attempts made sense, at least," he rambled on. "They were made inside the club, everyone knows I spend most of my time there. But today? There's no way in hell he knew I would stop by to buy wine after work. Especially not in advance, so he could set up an assassin. I was only there because Ed asked me to..."

His voice trailed off as realisation washed over him. He hurried to tap the roof of the car with the handle of his cane to attract his driver's attention.

"Change of plans," he told him. "Take me to the restaurant."

"Are you sure, sir?" Came the answer from the front seat. "I thought you wanted to stop by the mansion for a change of clothes. Your appointment with Mr. Nygma is only in two hours."

"Jog my memory a bit, would you? Do I pay you to question my orders or to drive me where I tell you to?"

This time, the driver was wise enough not to reply. The car made a sharp U turn and headed towards the other side of the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh boy, Ed, you're in Big Trouble.   
> Also, I'm weak for Ed and Oswald calling each other "dear"/"dearest" or any variation thereof.


	4. 4.

The place Oswald had booked for the night was located in the west side of Gotham. Nothing too fancy - an old fashioned Italian restaurant that he had visited multiple times when he was still working under Don Falcone. It possessed a few qualities Oswald greatly appreciated: an elegant atmosphere, a team of skilled cooks working in the kitchen and, most important of all, a staff which was very susceptible to Oswald's charm and generous allowance.

Oswald stormed through the door, heart hammering in his chest and only two bullets left in the chamber of his gun. He was determined to make them count. A part of him rebelled against the idea of putting a bullet in Ed's gut, after the many, many times they had saved each other, but he tried to shut it out, focusing on the searing pain of betrayal clawing at his insides instead.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to take in the sight before him, as he took the first steps inside.  All the tables had been moved except for the one currently occupying the centre of the room - that much he had anticipated. He had made sure to reserve the whole restaurant; the last thing he wanted was the other patrons casting wary glances in their direction as they enjoyed their dinner together. What he didn't expect, though, was Ed already waiting for him. Ed all dressed up in his best suit, resting his lower back against the edge of the table as if he had been expecting him for hours, now.

He didn't even seem that much surprised to notice the gun pointed at him. Lips curled into a lazy smile, he was the very picture of a man who knows he has everything under control. And how bad Oswald wanted to prove him wrong! He couldn't stop his eyes from darting around the room, in search of any sign that could tell him what kind of deadly trap Ed was going to greet him with, now that his previous plans had all been thwarted.

"I see you forgot to bring wine," he said matter-of-factly.

Oswald sneered at him. "Cut the chase, I know it was you!"

Ed chuckled, then, raising both of his hands in a mock-surrendering gesture. "Guilty as charged!"

Oswald took another step forward. Then another. Ed didn't even flinch when the business end of the weapon was pressed tightly against his chest.

Still, Oswald couldn't shake off the impression that there was something wrong. What he was looking at wasn't the face of a man worried for his life. It wasn't even the face of a man ready to kill. And he had experience of that, after a lifetime spent consorting with killers, outlaws and all kinds of people who would have ended a life without batting an eye. On more than one occasion, he had even witnessed how _Ed_ was like when he was ready to pull the trigger. That wasn't it. It looked a lot more like the amused expression Ed wore when he presented him with a riddle Oswald couldn't solve and was only waiting for him to admit his defeat to reveal the answer.

"Why, Ed?" His voice came out as barely more than a whisper, a far cry from the dangerous snarl he had been trying for.

The other man opened his mouth to say something, but Oswald didn't let him. Even if he ached to know what in the world had brought him to turn on him all of a sudden, with no regard from the promises they had made to each other, he couldn't stop the words spilling from his lips, drowning whatever Ed was meaning to say.

"I just don't understand," he went on, grip so tight on the handle of the gun that his knuckles turned white. "After everything we've achieved together. And you didn't even have the decency to face me up front, no - you had to hire a bunch of hitmen! Pathetic, inept hitmen who couldn't even do something as banal as shooting me in the head! _Why_?"

This time, instead of rushing for an answer, Ed took his sweet time. When he finally did speak, he did so wearing that damn grin of his, the one that made Oswald's heart ache from the memory of the many times he had seen it appear on his face. Of all the times he had kissed it off his lips because he just couldn't help himself.

“You’re right, I didn't hire the most competent people out there," he said. "But that would kind of defeat the purpose. You were having fun, right? That's what you were telling me this morning. You _missed_ the danger, Oswald, the thrill of it being personal and complicated, and not just another lowly thug shaking a weapon at you because you pissed him off."

"That's beside the point!" Oswald shouted, his voice almost a shriek now. "I thought we were past that, Ed. Me trying to kill you, you trying to kill me. Stabbing each other in the back with some stupid excuse. I really thought..." His voice trailed off without his consent.

Much to his horror, he realised that he would have ended up sobbing if he had kept talking any longer. His ego rejected such a humiliating possibility. No, that was one satisfaction Oswald wasn't willing to give him. Ed would have to retort to torture if he wanted to coax out of him anything that wasn't bitter contempt, and that - as long as he was the one holding the weapon, wasn't going to happen any time sooner.

Ed took his momentary silence as his cue to resume speaking. "Did you know that floriography, the art of communicating covertly through different kinds and arrangements of flowers, dates back to the Victorian era? They used flowers to--"

"Shut your mouth!" Oswald snapped, before he could have a chance at finishing his useless little monologue. Even before Oswald himself could elaborate the abrupt change of topic and wonder why Ed was talking about archaic flower-themed traditions, all of a sudden.

Only then did Ed's smile drop somewhat. He was taken aback by Oswald's forceful reaction, to the point that, for a brief moment, he seemed to be at a loss for words. He blinked once, twice, as if _he_ had any right to be surprised by Oswald's entirely justified outburst. He was quick to find his eloquence, though.

"Alright, alright, let me try again," he hastily said. "What is carried by a bride soon to be wed, thrown on the stage to reward a talented performer, or gifted to a loved one by an avid admirer?"

Oswald's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He knew the answer, yet he didn't see how it had anything to do with the current situation. Nor why Ed seemed so giddy about it, for that matter.

"A riddle, really?"

"Just answer!" Ed insisted.

Oswald, for his part, let out a frustrated sigh. "Is it a bouquet?"

Ed's grin was back, wider than ever. "Correct!"

"Ed, I don't--"

"Understand, I know," he interrupted him. "Let me show you."

Ed stepped aside, so that Oswald could see something that had remained hidden from view all throughout their confrontation. At the centre of the table, in lieu of a bouquet of fresh flowers, there were three small frames, displaying what turned out to be three mugshots of three very familiar faces. Namely, the faces of the three hitmen who had tried to kill him in the course of the last few days.

"I figured regular flowers wouldn't be fitting for an extraordinary man like you. So I had to do something extraordinary in turn," Ed explained.

It was Oswald's turn to blink, his eyes shifting from the portraits on the table to the other man. The pieces started to slowly come together in his head. The incompetence of the assassins, their unusual names, Ed's own concern fading all too easily when Oswald reassured him. When he finally realised what it was all about, he didn't know how to react. Was there even an appropriate reaction to your lover sending three incompetent flower-themed killers after you, all for the sake of wordplay?

"You..." He almost couldn't bring himself to say it, for how absurd it sounded. He struggled to find the words to describe something so outlandish, yet _so Ed_ to do as an extravagant display of affection. "You hired them to come after me. Purposefully chose them for their names, so that they would be...what? A reference to different species of flowers?"

Ed held up one finger. "Camellias are commonly associated with love, especially of a passionate and romantic nature," he added another, before carrying on. "The daisy is a symbol of loyalty and heathers, also known as _calluna vulgaris_ , represent awe and admiration." In the end, he was holding up three fingers, a mirror of the three portraits staring back at them from the dinner table.

"There should have been a Miss Lily too - your mother's favourite flower - but she cancelled the contract after she discovered what happened to her colleagues," he concluded, seeing that Oswald was struggling to wrap his head around his words.

Oswald felt warm, relieved laughter replace blind fury in the depths of his chest. One moment he was ready to kill him and now he wanted nothing more than to hold him in his arms.

"A bouquet of assassins," he said, unable to hold back laughter any longer. "You never cease to amaze me, Edward Nygma." 

Oswald's heart skipped a beat when he saw the other man's chest literally swell at the praise. And there was, oh so much fondness in the way Ed looked back at him. "I heard you mumbling about how repetitive your job had become and how you kind of missed the adrenaline from the old days, when it was just you against the world. I thought I could catch two birds with one stone and make you re-live some of that adrenaline while also reminding you of my undying affection."

That was it. Oswald let the gun drop to the floor in favour of raising his hand to cup Ed's cheek. Then, he used the other to grab him by the lapels of his suit jacket, pushing him backwards against the table and at the same time pulling him down in a deep, passionate kiss. He felt him whimper in his mouth, which only spurred him on to continue kissing down along his throat, stopping only when he met the collar of Ed's dress shirt.

"Dear god, Oswald," Ed exhaled against his temple. "You were so hot when you stormed in here all burning with rage, you have no idea..."

Oswald rewarded his confession with a light nip at the soft flesh there. While it was no secret that Ed had developed something of a deep-seated fascination for his more ruthless, short-tempered side, hearing him express his feelings out loud was always a welcome reminder.

"I might have killed you," he whispered, mere inches from Ed's lips.

"I wanted to surprise you. It was worth the risk." Ed's fingers tangled in the hair at the back of Oswald's head as he kissed him again, and again, until they both lost count. Until they were forced to pull away, breath heavy and cheeks flushed.

Ed cleared his throat, then proceeded to adjust his glasses in a way that Oswald couldn't help but find endearing. "While I'd love to continue in this vein, I really think we should dine first. It would be a shame to let the food go to waste."

Oswald chuckled, pressing one last kiss on the corner of his mouth. "I agree."

They sat at opposite sides of the small table. In response to Ed clapping his hands, the waiters appeared from behind the door leading to the kitchen and hurried to serve the first dish of the evening, along with a nice bottle of wine. As inviting as the smell of roasted lamb was, Oswald found it hard to concentrate on the food. Or on the slow music playing in the background from an old record player, really. In spite of his best efforts, his gaze kept wandering towards Ed, lingering alternatively on his smile, his hands, the glimmer of his brown eyes behind the frames of his glasses.

He didn't know what he had done to deserve the love, loyalty and respect of someone like him. He probably never would. He suspected it would take him a thousand years only to scrape the surface and get a glimpse of the reason why Ed Nygma had ended up falling head over heels for Oswald Cobblepot. Maybe he could be happy with something simpler. Something easier. To love and let himself be loved, without asking questions destined to remain unanswered. Yes, Oswald thought as he reached out to take Ed's hand in his own and squeeze it gently, he could settle for that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who spared some time to read this and leave a comment and/or kudos!


End file.
